Free Bo's Café by John Lynch, Bill Thrall, Bruce McNicol Page B

friend Andy, he’s kind of at the
     center of it. The whole shindig never probably would’ve happened without him. He’s had a pretty stinkin’ huge impact on a
     lot of lives.”
    “I’m starting to catch on to that.”
    Carlos slides his chair closer. “I think he figures most people don’t have someone safe enough when things go south. So the
     dude kind of watches for people who might be discovering they need something like that.”
    “Kind of like me?” I ask.
    Carlos ignores my question. “Everyone needs it. Everyone, man. Most just don’t see it. He’s always watching for it. May not
     seem like it. The cat sometimes seems like he’s listening to music in some other town. He doesn’t always seem…”
    I try to help. “Focused?”
    “Yeah, focused. Sometimes he seems to be answering questions nobody’s asking. Other times he’s not answering what you
did
ask. Right? That old dude drives me nuts sometimes. But don’t let the clothes and the slouching fool you. The old dude is
     sharp. He’s listening. I’ve figured out he’s waiting.”
    “Waiting?”
    “Yeah, he’s waiting to hear if the person is ready to risk letting someone inside, past the show, past the dance.”
    “So the people on this deck—they’re the ones who have let him in?”
    “Yeah, sort of, but not all. I do it now too—listening. Cynthia does it. Even Hank. A bunch of us. We’re all listening.”
    “You doing that with me right now, Carlos? Are you listening to see if I’m ready?”
    He laughs so hard he leans back and hits his knee on the table. “Oh, no, man! You kidding me? Carlos can’t be listening to
     everyone. Carlos loves to hear himself talk. I’ll let Andy do the listening with you. Till they get back, you’re stuck with
     me eating and talking.
Comprende?
”
    “Yeah, Carlos, I’m good with that,” I say. “So what does he do when he meets with you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Like, what does he talk about when you’re together?”
    “Hmmm.” Carlos stares past me. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t think about it. We eat. We always seem to eat.”
    He motions to a busboy walking by. “Jorge, when you get time,
mi bebida con sucar
.
Gracias.
”
    Carlos turns back to me. “Here’s something. Maybe it’ll help answer your question. Andy was the first dude I ever met who
     had more confidence in the grace of God than in the power of the crap I was dragging around.”
    I shake my head. “What?”
    Carlos laughs. “Oh, yeah. Get your head around that one, amigo. It’ll set you free. Steven, most people want to fix stuff
     in others so they don’t keep embarrassing them no more. You know what I mean?” he says, smiling and nudging me. “It’s true,
     man. It’s like if they can’t just get away from you, they’re afraid of you stinking up the place. And that won’t look so good
     for them.”
    I reply, almost to myself, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that before.”
    “You need to get out more. See, man, we want others to think we’ve got it all together, like we don’t need a handout. So we
     stack the deck, we bluff, we cover up the stuff we don’t like about ourselves. We make ourselves a nice little mask. And then
     we hide behind it. It’s who we wish we could be, who we wish others thought we were. What a joke, huh?” Carlos shakes his
     head. “One of my masks was my position. I wouldn’t have known then to say that. But I know it now.”
    “Your position?”
    “I was the pastor of a big church in Covina.” He sits up and puffs out his chest. “
El jefe. El camaron!
Lots of people looking up to Carlos, wanting to make me somebody bigger than life, like some kind of pope or something. Make
     me out to be this magic dude of faith… all squeaky clean and together and shiny. It’s like you know better, but you start
     thinking to yourself,
Carlos is the man!
Yeeesh. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so stinking stupid.”
    “You were a pastor?” I